


The Way It Begins

by GallantGeekery



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Time, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-09 07:31:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallantGeekery/pseuds/GallantGeekery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has dreamed of Sherlock before, more times than he can count. Sometimes he sees Sherlock falling again. He wakes from those dreams with a shout, his body covered in sweat. Other times he simply sees their lives as they once were. They’re drinking tea together, or laughing at the television. Sometimes they’re kissing, soft and slow, and John is carefully mapping out the lines of Sherlock’s chest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I should be studying. Instead I'm doing this.

It begins with a feeling. 

John is walking home from the shop when he gets the strange sensation that someone is following him. He slows his pace slightly, whips his head around, and places a hand on the gun that he can’t ever seem to part with. But there’s nothing behind him when he turns. He shrugs it off as paranoia. The shrink he’s been forced back to since Sherlock… since Sherlock left… has said that his paranoia is a result of grief. John isn’t sure. John doesn’t care. He shrugs off the feeling and continues on his way to his dreary flat.

He couldn’t afford Baker Street alone. And even though Mrs. Hudson would have probably worked with him, he couldn’t have stayed there anyway. It was too much. Sherlock was too vividly present in the flat. It’s funny that even in death Sherlock still has a more striking presence than John. He’s everywhere. Always. And John feels like he’s nowhere. Like he’s a ghost, floating dully through a life he once participated in.

It’s not that he’s sad exactly. He was, yes. He was desperately, heartbreakingly sad. He was sad for himself, for Sherlock, for his friends and his family, for Mycroft, for Greg Lestrade, for the public who believed they’d been lied to, for Sherlock’s reputation, for what could have been, for what never would be… Yes, he had been sad. For years, it seemed. But he isn’t sad anymore. He has no more tears to cry. Now he’s just empty. He doesn’t feel a thing.

When he reaches his tiny flat he makes himself tea, forces down half a cup, and throws the rest down the drain. Tea’s more of a habit than a pleasure these days.

He’s not depressed. No one believes him, but he’s not depressed. He’s just empty. There’s a difference. He’s sure of it. There must be a difference. He doesn’t want to die. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t feel like he’s alive at all, but that’s not the point.

He works. He eats. Hell, he’s even gone out a few times. He can live without Sherlock. He can live without Sherlock. He’s not sure that he’ll ever be happy again, but he can live.

John takes a cool shower. He goes to bed.

It continues with a dream. 

John has dreamed of Sherlock before, more times than he can count. Sometimes he sees Sherlock falling again. He wakes from those dreams with a shout, his body covered in sweat. Other times he simply sees their lives as they once were. They’re drinking tea together, or laughing at the television. 

Sometimes they’re kissing, soft and slow, and John is carefully mapping out the lines of Sherlock’s chest. Sometimes he’s pushing into Sherlock with force and passion that he’s never loved with while awake. He wakes from those dreams painfully hard and confused. He tries not too overthink them. He tries not to regret what he never did when Sherlock was alive. But he does anyway.

But tonight his dream is different. He dreams of lying in Sherlock’s arms, being cradled gently by him. He feels warm and safe, and when he wakes, he swears he can still feel a soft hand running along his scalp. It’s more real than it’s ever been. He shakes as he runs a hand through his hair, and feels that it’s standing oddly, like it’s been touched. But it’s nothing, of course. It has to be nothing. John goes back to sleep.

He wakes in the middle of the night to a phone call. A blocked number on his cell phone. He answers, bleary-eyed and still half asleep. 

“Hello?”

“John.”

“Mycroft… Why the fuck are you calling me?”

His words are cold, he knows. But Mycroft’s voice reminds him of Sherlock, and Sherlock reminds him of Moriarty, and Moriarty reminds him that Mycroft sold his own brother out. He’s the reason Sherlock’s gone. Mycroft is the only person John ever allowed himself to blame besides himself. 

“I’m calling with news, John.”

Mycroft’s voice is calm. Like he isn’t just speaking to John for the first time in two years. Like he didn’t cause Sherlock’s death. Like he didn’t effectively tear apart John’s entire world.

“I’m hanging up,” John says. But something stops him. He waits for Mycroft to speak again.

“He’s alive,” Mycroft says suddenly.

John goes numb. Somehow more numb than he already feels. He hangs up the phone and falls back onto his pillow. He doesn’t believe Mycroft. He doesn’t hope. He tries to push the phone call out of his head. It isn’t possible for him to be alive. He watched Sherlock die. He saw everything.

John tries to go back to sleep, but Mycroft’s words nag at him, and he can’t.

But eventually he must, because he wakes early the next morning to a soft knock on the door.

He gets up, bare feet padding quietly on the floor, and pulls the door open without bothering to look first.

The door swings open and John forgets how to breathe. He’d never known that knees actually buckled, but apparently they do, because he stumbles to the ground. His breathing finds him in quick, panicked gasps. He’s still asleep. He must be. Because there’s no way that he’s awake. There’s no way that Sherlock Holmes is standing in front of him. Warm and breathing. It’s not possible.

“Sherlock,” he hears himself breathe, as strong, alive hands work their way under his armpits and pull him back to his feet. He lets himself be pulled into the flat and onto his chair. He slumps into the leather like a ragdoll.

“Sherlock,” he says again, when the man stands against the wall across from him.

God, he’s just as he once was. Dark curls hanging over his forehead. Eyes shining blue and green and grey, and seeing. No scars, no sign at all that he’d been gone. He hadn’t aged a bit. So it had to be impossible. It had been years. He should have aged.

“You’re not here,” John says in a small voice.

Sherlock fixes his eyes on him. “I am.”

John feels his head shaking. “You… you’re dead.”

Sherlock’s eyes soften, just a bit. “No.”

“I saw you die.”

“You saw what I wanted you to see.”

“We buried you.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “You buried a cadaver. You didn’t bury me.”

“I don’t…”

“I had to. I had to do it,” Sherlock’s voice is low.

And then it starts to hit John. Sherlock is alive. Sherlock has been alive this entire time. For years John has mourned this man. He’s cried. He’s lost everything. Only he hadn’t really lost anything at all, because here Sherlock was. He had lied to him. And for what? A case. Perhaps John had gotten too boring. He always knew it would happen eventually. With Sherlock, nothing ever really stood a chance. It was too much. His head spun like a whirlwind.

“I…” his voice cracks and breaks. “You’re alive.”

Sherlock, goddamn him, smiles. It’s small, barely there, but he smiles. John sees red and suddenly he’s on his feet. It seems they work again. He’s in front of Sherlock in an instant, and punching him across the face with every bit of force he has. Because he lied. Because John mourned him. Because John missed him more than he thought it was possible to miss anything.

He doesn’t feel any better when he steps away and sees the already darkening bruise on Sherlock’s cheek. He’s still hurt, and confused, and overwhelmed, and relieved, and terrified, and god, his hand aches now, on top of everything else.

Sherlock doesn’t react to the blow. A trickle of blood falls from his nose, almost gracefully.

“Get out of here,” John growls. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying. He’s wished for Sherlock since his death, and now he can’t stand to be in the same room with this man who lied to him. This man who took his life away so fucking easily.

“John.”

John squeezes his eyes shut. He’s heard Sherlock say his name a hundred times in dreams, but it’s nothing compared to this. Tears well in his eyes before he can fight them. “Please,” he chokes, because he can’t see Sherlock right now. He can’t process this.

“I can explain,” Sherlock says, and John’s eyes are still closed, but he swears he hears emotion in that machine’s voice.

“There’s nothing you can say.”

“John.”

“Nothing.”

“He was going to kill you.”

John pauses at that, because it isn’t what he expected.

“You, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson. Moriarty had snipers fixed on all of you. John. They would have killed you. I didn’t have a choice.”

John opens his eyes and sees a tear fall from Sherlock’s cheek. Always the actor, John thinks.

“Sherlock, please,” John’s world has zeroed in on one point. Sherlock Holmes. And it’s too much. He feels a million things at once and he doesn’t know what to do. He wants to throw himself at Sherlock, and hit him until the pain in his mind goes away. He wants to kiss him, draw him close, and never let him go. He wants… he wants to breathe again. He wants a moment to take everything in.

Sherlock reads him, he must, because he accepts defeat and turns for the door. “I was without you, too,” he murmurs as he goes.

John lets his head fall into his hands. It seems he’s remembered how to cry.


	2. Chapter 2

The day passes slowly, like the entire world has faltered with the reappearance of Sherlock Holmes. Everything stops for Sherlock. John doesn’t leave the flat. He doesn’t eat, doesn’t contact anyone. He thinks. He sits in his small cold flat and thinks about his life, the way it’s changed and the ways it will change again. He thinks about Sherlock.

It takes two hours for his hands to stop shaking. His leg still won’t allow him much movement. He bought a new cane after Sherlock died. No, not died. Left. After Sherlock left. Willingly, despite what it would do to the people who cared about him. Despite what it would do to John.

John feels angry. He can barely contain the deep, red-hot rage that courses through him when he thinks of the things he’s gone through in the last three years. 

But he’s also unbelievably, unfathomably happy. Because Sherlock is alive. And that is the only thing he’s prayed for since Sherlock left. He can’t count the number of times he pounded on the floor and screamed at the sky in desperate hopes for a miracle. The times he thought that if only Sherlock were back he would do anything in the world. He would give anything.

But now that Sherlock is back, John doesn’t know what to do.

Mycroft has called his phone nine times in the hours since he saw Sherlock. John doesn’t answer any of the calls. If there’s one thing he’s sure of, it’s that he doesn’t have anything to say to Mycroft Holmes.

He sits in his chair, confused and numb, until night falls. And then he sleeps. A dark restless sleep, filled with muddled dreams of Sherlock.

The next morning there is another soft knock on the door. John opens it slowly, bracing himself for the face he knows will be looking back at him.

Sherlock looks better today. He’s wearing his old coat, collar up, and the blue scarf John has seen many times. Must be going for familiarization. In a way it works. John’s legs hold him up today. He doesn’t hit Sherlock. Doesn’t yell at him. Instead, he opens the door and motions for the man to follow him inside. Sherlock does.

John leads Sherlock into the main room and takes a seat on the couch. Sherlock stands, his face expressionless. 

“I don’t quite know what to say,” Sherlock says after an extended period of icy silence.

“That’s a first,” John says. The playful words spill out of him unconsciously. It’s the first thing resembling a joke he’s made in longer than he can remember. Sherlock’s presence is easy to slip back into. Like riding a bike.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches and his eyes meet John’s. His expression darkens. “John. I am terribly sorry.”

His voice is sincere, maybe more sincere than John’s ever heard, but that doesn’t stop the familiar anger from flooding back into him.

“Sherlock,” he falters at the name that’s slipped from his lips. “You have,” he pauses, takes a deep breath. “You have no idea what you did to me… to everyone.”

Sherlock’s hands are in front of him, clenched in something resembling discomfort. “I may have underestimated the impact my death would have on you.”

John runs a hand over his forehead, tracing the lines. “Yes. Well. Did you think I’d be happy you were gone, Sherlock? That I’d just go back to normal. Whatever normal was. Did you think I would work at the damn clinic? Go out on dates? Just go on like nothing had happened? What impact did you think this would have, Sherlock? Because I’m having a fucking difficult time figuring out just what the hell you were thinking.” His voice shakes with anger that he hadn’t planned on showing.

Sherlock takes the smallest of steps away from John, like the words physically push him away. He doesn’t say anything.

“Come on,” John says. “You love showing off, Sherlock. You always did. Go on, tell me what you thought would happen.”

Sherlock looks at the ground for a moment before catching John’s eyes. “I thought you would mourn appropriately.” John huffs a breath of bitter laughter but Sherlock presses on. “I thought you would visit my grave, speak to a stone in the ground as if it were me. Tell me how amazing I was. How brilliant. How I made your life exciting. But it would have passed John. It would have been sentiment, nothing more. I was a flare in your lens. You would stay at Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson adores you. She would have helped with the rent. Your life would fall back into a routine. You would meet a nice woman. Of course you would. You were always going to. Fall in something dull and mundane that you would call love. Get married. Have two children. Statistically speaking they would be a boy and a girl. Common names. You’d consider naming the boy Sherlock. But that’s sentiment. Silly, fleeting. And Sherlock is a ridiculous name so you would decide against it. Probably go with Thomas. Or perhaps Anthony. The girl would be Emily. Or Amanda. Boring. Terribly boring, but you would be happy.” Sherlock stops and looks at the ground again. He doesn’t seem as confident in his words like he used to be. “I thought you would be happy,” he says.

“A flare in my lens?” John finds himself repeating.

“Sudden, bright, exciting, but gone without leaving much of a void,” Sherlock explains.

John shakes his head. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond.

“You’re an idiot,” John says quietly.

Sherlock says nothing.

“You’re not,” John pauses, runs a hand heavily over his mouth. Pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re not a goddamn lens flare in my life, Sherlock. You’re… You. God, I don’t know. Life without you didn’t… It wasn’t…” He trails off, still as unable to bare his soul to Sherlock as he was before he left. 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says again, his voice uncharacteristically small.

“Where were you?” John asks, his voice sharper than intended.

“I was destroying Moriarty’s web. He was the center, yes, but no one was safe until his operatives were gone. Sebastian Moran, Moriarty’s right hand man and lover - if I’m correct, which I am - threatened to take advantage of the resources Moriarty left behind. He had to be tracked down and dealt with.”

“You killed him?”

“Yes.”

“Is it done then? The web is gone?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” John doesn’t know what else to say. Things with Sherlock were never very awkward but this, this is undeniably awkward.

“This flat is beneath you, John,” Sherlock says with disdain, looking around the room. “Tiny. Lifeless. Repulsive. How could you leave 221B?”

“How could I stay?” John counters, his voice quivering slightly.

Sherlock closes his mouth and gives a miniscule nod. “It’s still available, you know. Baker Street. Our flat.”

John’s stomach twists. “Sherlock.”

“I know you don’t want to live with me. No. Wouldn’t expect you to. But perhaps you could allow me to pay my share for a better flat.”

“No, I’d never...”

“Just half,” Sherlock interrupts. “I’ll pay half. Like before. That way you can afford the flat again.”

“Sherlock,”

“Just think about it. John, I see the things that I’ve done. Caused. You’re walking with a cane again. Pity. You know that injury isn’t legitimate. The tremor in your hand has flared up as well. Makes taking surgeries difficult. You’re a shell at the clinic, John. They would’ve fired you long ago if Sarah hadn’t once harbored romantic feelings for you. Though now, they’re only feelings of pity, aren’t they? You drink far too much, too often. Alcoholism runs in your family, John. You know better. Your uncle, your father, for a bit, and your sister, obviously. You don’t own a telly. Odd. You always loved those insufferably predictable sci fi programs. There isn’t much in the kitchen. You’re not eating properly. Had nothing at all today. Tea? No, not even tea. You’ve met with Lestrade… once? No, twice. Neither time went well. He’s lost his position, I imagine. Lowered considerably in rank. You’ve met with Molly once. Worse than the meeting with Lestrade. She cried. Course she cried. Always does. She pitied you, too. But you didn’t pity yourself, did you? No… No, you blamed yourself. Oh…” Sherlock pauses and seems to realize that he’s lost track of his original point. “You blamed yourself… I do see what I’ve done, John. Think about letting me pay half. You shouldn’t live this way. And Mrs. Hudson would love for you to return.” His eyes close briefly as he mentions Mrs. Hudson. John doesn’t mention it.

“I can’t,” John says, his voice low. “Sherlock, I can’t.”

“Think about it,” Sherlock says as he turns for the door.

John thinks about stopping him, about asking where it is that he goes and why he goes there, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything. He watches Sherlock leave, and tries to ignore the throbbing in his head. 

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! I really like this story, for reasons I can't quite explain. It's bleak now, I know, but things will get brighter.


	3. Chapter 3

Three days pass before John works up the nerve to visit 221B. He’ll speak with Mrs. Hudson. It’s the least he can do. He knows Sherlock’s death… absence wasn’t easy for her either. He spoke to her only a few times after it happened. Then he moved out and lost contact completely. It was selfish of him, he knows, to hide away. But he couldn’t be there. Couldn’t bear it. Now, knowing Sherlock is alive, the idea seems more manageable.

“Mrs. Hudson,” he says with a nod when she opens the door. She doesn’t look much different. A bit older. Well, she is a bit older. She pulls him into a long hug.

“John, dear.” Her grip is strong. John had imagined she might cry, but she doesn’t. Strong, strong Mrs. Hudson. Much stronger than he was.

“He’s told you then,” she says when she releases him and invites him in. They don’t go into 221B. John still isn’t sure he can. He follows Mrs. Hudson into another flat. Her flat? How strange he’s never seen it. Maybe he has. He can’t remember. They each sit on opposite couches in the main room.

“How long have you known?” John asks, his voice sharper than he intended. 

“Not long.” She shakes her head. “One day he was dead, and the next he was in my kitchen, demanding I let him move back into the flat.”

John runs his hands over his face. “Yes, that’s basically how he told me, too.”

“I’m so sorry, dear,” she says, reaching across to take John’s hand.

“You’re sorry?” he says, letting her hold him but hardly squeezing her hand back.

“I’m sorry for what you’ve been through. He didn’t know,” she says softly. “He never knows. Can’t see what’s right in front of him. Doesn’t understand love at all, poor boy. He feels it but he doesn’t understand…”

“Mrs. Hudson.” John shakes his head. “Please. It was never like that.”

She eyes him knowingly. “Of course not. But you were friends. And Sherlock Holmes doesn’t truly understand friendship either, does he?” She drops John’s hand and stands up. She walks into the kitchen. “Tea?”

“No thanks,” John mutters. He has no appetite. Not even enough for a drink.

“You’ll be moving back in then?” she calls from the kitchen.

“No,” John says shortly. Mrs. Hudson sets down her cup in the kitchen. The porcelain clank against the counter is loud, harsh. She steps back into the sitting room.

“No,” she repeats, her eyes narrowed.

“I don’t know.” John presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. He shuts his eyes, willing away the tears that threaten to fall from them. “I don’t know what to do,” he says after a moment.

Mrs. Hudson sits next to him. She wraps her arm around his shoulder. “Sherlock is a stupid man.” John catches her eye. She smirks. “Brilliant, of course. Absolutely brilliant. But stupid.”

“Yes,” John mutters bitterly. “Yes, I agree.”

“But he means well. John Watson, you know he means well. He always has.”

“He can’t,” John stops. Draws a sharp breath. “He can’t just come back and act as if nothing’s happened. He let me think he was _dead_.”

“I know,” she says and nothing more.

“I’m sorry,” John says, recognizing the pain in her eyes. “God, I’m sorry. Listen to me. He let you think he was gone too and here I am rambling along. I’m a right mess.”

“I think you should move back in,” Mrs. Hudson says after a moment.

“Do you really?”

“It would be good for everyone.”

John sits beside her for what feels like hours before he stands and heads for the door. “I’ll move back in,” he says before he leaves. “But I don’t want him here, Mrs. Hudson. Not yet.”

She nods and gives him a small smile. “Of course, dear.”

He leaves.

John hears from Sherlock again the next morning. He doesn’t arrive at his door as he’s done before. He sends John a short text.

_You’re moving back in._ – **SH**

_Yes._

_Good._ – **SH**

John doesn’t answer Sherlock’s second text. He stares at it, clenches his fist at his side and focuses on his breathing.

_John, you should initial your texts so the recipient knows that you sent the message._ – **SH**

_Who else would answer my texts?_

_You still didn’t initial the message._ – **SH**

_Fine._ – **JW**

_Are you happy?_ – **JW**

_The happiest I’ve been in quite a while._ – **SH**

John doesn’t know how to respond, so he doesn’t. Sherlock doesn’t text him again that day. John boxes up his belongings and begins moving them back to 221B. He doesn’t have much these days. Sherlock was always the one with the clutter. John’s never needed much. By the end of the day he’s already moved most of his things. Only a few more large boxes to go. He’ll get them tomorrow.

He dreams of Sherlock again. He dreams that they’re back at Baker Street. Home. He dreams that they’re together in John’s bed, wrapped in each other’s arms. And though John is somehow aware that he’s dreaming, he doesn’t pull away from Sherlock; instead he pulls him closer. He feels the rise and fall of his chest and he pushes his face into Sherlock’s hair. He breathes him in. Time slips away.

When he wakes the next morning his bed feels too empty. But that’s nothing out of the ordinary. It always feels too empty. He prepares his final boxes for 221B. He hasn’t eaten in days. He isn’t hungry.

He’s completely moved out of his small flat by midday. Despite being filled with boxes, 221B hasn’t changed. It’s exactly as he remembered. Mrs. Hudson left the large furniture in place. Sentiment, John thinks. He winces when he realizes that he can clearly hear the word in his mind in Sherlock’s questioning voice.

John sits in his old chair and tries not to think about the days he spent here following Sherlock’s jump. He pulls out his phone.

_Back in 221B. Mrs. Hudson didn’t move a thing._

_Sentiment._ – **SH**

John smiles at his phone. The movement feels foreign on his face.

_Probably._

John waits for a reply but doesn’t get one. He grows impatient. 

_It’s not the same without you._

He sends the message quickly, before his brain has time to register that it’s a terrible idea.

_Are you asking me to move back in?_ – **SH**

_No._

_I’ll come by tomorrow._ – **SH**

_No. Not tomorrow. Have to unpack._

_I’ll help you._ – **SH**

_You’d hate it. Only be a nuisance._

_True._ – **SH**

_You still don’t initial your messages._ – **SH**

_Bugger off._ – **JW**

_See you tomorrow._ \- **SH**


End file.
